Hobbo's Poems
A quirky look at life from a Yorkshire poet and his dog's perspective
A frustrating game
A frustrating game
What a round of golf today,
Like Ballesteros in his day.
Next time out, a different story,
Harry Hookit in his glory.
A frustrating game
What a round of golf today,
Like Ballesteros in his day.
Next time out, a different story,
Harry Hookit in his glory.
Hobbo's Poems 
I used to live on the Costa del Golf!
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😊
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golf can be like that: I used to play it — not very well — when I was teaching in the country; you were expected to play golf or Aussie Rules; I chose golf 🙂
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I was a lot smarter in 1968 than now. After a beautiful drive off the tee bonked a hidden rock, accosted a jackrabbit, and careened well off a birdie-teasing path, I chunked my clubs into the trunk of my Impala where they stayed until I sold them to the Chief of Police in 1970. Suddenly the “sport” had no appeal. No bending of shafts across my knee, no cursing, no rabid antics, simply a realization that golf was cruelly unnatural. I find, not that I’m pondering insane greens fees again, but that I’m rethinking many other life decisions. Some trivial like getting married, others cosmic, like selling that Impala. Swell read, Hobb. Thanks.
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What a well penned comment SP, better than the post. Gave me a good chuckle!
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I played golf before I had kids. Always wondered why the grass pathways was so wide?
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🙂I can get from the tee to the green without touching those fairways!
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